The Last Visit
by Hekate1308
Summary: There was one other grave he had to visit before he left London. The first one had been his own. Post-Reichenbach.


**Author's note: Not only did I receive very kind reviews for my latest story, but I also noticed that I now have over 100 followers.**

**Which means over a hundred people will get a message simply because I post a story. That's just – Thank you. Thank you all so much. I don't know what to say. So I wrote something. **

**I don't own anything, please review.**

There was one other grave he had to visit before he left London. The first one had been his own.

Mycroft, had he known that he was alive (he was still debating whether he should let him know his death had been faked or not, his brother could be useful), would undoubtedly have called it "another proof of his narcissism" to visit a grave he knew was empty, simply because his name stood on the headstone. It hadn't been narcissism, though. Senseless as it was, illogical as it was, he had wanted, needed to see it, to remind himself why he had done what he had done, why he was leaving the city and his – friends behind.

To make sure that this and all other graves that might bear a name that meant anything to him, stayed empty.

Luckily he was turning around to go when he saw John and Mrs. Hudson in the distance. He managed to hide behind the trees just in time, cursing his own stupidity. He should have predicted that they would visit the cemetery at some point to say goodbye in private.

He hadn't thought he'd see them again before he left. He hadn't wanted to. He had followed the media coverage of his funeral, and it had been bad enough; Mrs. Hudson's tears, Lestrade's guilty countenance and John's stoic face stayed in his mind no matter how many times he'd tried to delete it.

But this, somehow, was worse. Because at the funeral they had still been in shock – he hadn't seen the full extent of their grief.

Now, though, now he did.

Bless Mrs. Hudson and her anger. He'd always known that she was stronger than most people believed, and that she was angry proved that. He hadn't admitted to himself until this moment how much he must mean to her, however. She acted like she had lost a –

No, there was no use in conjectures. She would be fine, and yet not forget him. He could live with that.

John –

John was a soldier, John was brave. John shouldn't cry at another man's grave.

And John should definitely not thank him. He'd done nothing except being himself. And John had accepted him. John owed him nothing. Yes, his limp had disappeared after he'd met him, and he'd hardly been plagued by nightmares, but – was it really Sherlock who had done all this? Was it really Sherlock, or just the excitement and adrenaline that seemed to follow him wherever he went?

Apparently it had been him, or at least John seemed to think so, because the doctor, his doctor, his blogger, his only friend certainly looked like he'd lost his whole world, and it hurt in a way Sherlock had never thought possible. He'd been sure that he would return, eventually (because, despite his efforts, he couldn't be rational, couldn't tell himself he might never come back to London); now he knew why. He had to return for John. He had to return for the one human being who knew him, truly, and still wanted to be around him.

He tried to convince himself that John's leg wasn't bothering him as he turned around and left, but it was useless. He knew what he'd seen.

Mrs. Hudson would be fine. John probably wouldn't be.

And he suddenly asked himself if he wanted John to be fine without him in the first place. If he truly wanted to come back only to find John married, maybe with children (he didn't know how long it would take him, after all) and having forgotten all about him.

The truth was that he didn't.

It was selfish, utterly selfish, but he'd always been a selfish being. And maybe this selfishness would help him, make it easier for him to do what he had to do, because it would remind him constantly what he had to lose.

It was then, watching John walk away, seeing him for the last time in what could be months, years even, that he decided he needed to visit one other grave before leaving everything behind.

Because if he deserved to have people mourning at his grave, so did she.

She had been buried on a small cemetery in the north of town, not far from her flat. He'd never been there before, but knew where it was located; he knew every street in this city, the only place he'd ever called home.

The headstone was simpler than Sherlock's; there was no gold lettering, just white words on a dark surface, but somehow, it fit her – she had never seemed the type for great gestures. And the grave appeared well cared for; the grass was cut, and there lay a bouquet of flowers on it that must have been put there during the last two days.

Sherlock looked, for once just looked, at the headstone for a moment.

Soo Lin Yao.

She was one of the few people he'd met who had genuinely impressed him with their intellect. He had been impressed with the humanity – John Watson came to mind – or the optimism or the ingenuity of others, but until he'd met Soo Lin Yao, he'd seldom been impressed by the intellect of a normal human being. Yet she had somehow managed to escape the Black Lotus, an organization who had their eyes all around London, at least for a while.

They hadn't been able to save her; during his life, there had been many people he hadn't been able to save. In a profession like his, it was an unavoidable fact that there would always some lives that would be lost, someone who had to be sacrificed to reach the goal. But there had been few who had impressed him like Soo Lin Yao, who had managed to somehow escape the Black Lotus all on her own, until – until he and John had shown up. She had been safe until this moment, until they had found her. General Chang had told John that they had been under surveillance. Maybe –

And then, just as she had been about to hand him the key to the case, her brother, her killer, had shown up. Of course, he had no proof that they had been followed, that their investigation had led to her death – but it was a strange coincidence, especially if one chose not to believe in coincidences.

While they had been running around the museum, her brother had killed her –

And then Sherlock realized what else had prompted him to visit her grave.

Subconsciously, he must have realized all along, perhaps at the same time he saw through it all, Moriarty's scheme, Mycroft's betrayal, what he would have to do, that he and the young woman had more in common than he'd ever thought they had.

Both had gone up against strong foes; Soo Lin Yao had, against the wishes of the Black Lotus and the General, left her home and built a new life, knowing that they would never be far away, but nonetheless enjoying the time she had. He'd never met someone so determined to enjoy the time they had – understandable under the circumstances, perhaps, but how many could claim they had actually achieved their goal of making the most of their life, no matter how short it had been?

Moriarty had managed to make him leave his home; he had chased him away, just like the Black Lotus had chased Soo Lin Yao away. The difference being that Sherlock actually had a chance in this fight. He was undoubtedly able to rise to the challenge, she hadn't been. And still he was standing at her grave.

Sherlock had fought against Moriarty, was still fighting – he wouldn't let the dead consulting criminal beat him. He would dismantle his web, man by man, organization by organization, until he could return home.

He chose not to think about what he would do, how it would affect him. Yet. There would be a time when he could no longer ignore these questions, but for now, when he was still breathing the sweet air of London, he could allow himself a moment, just a moment, of peace, for the last time in – for the last time in God knew how long, John would probably say.

He continued staring at the headstone. Yes, the bunch of flowers must have been brought recently. Red roses.

Soo Lin Yao was gone but not forgotten, it would seem. Her co-worker Andi's crush on her had been obvious enough. He had been concerned when she'd disappeared, he'd told Sherlock and John all they needed to help them find her. He didn't know how he'd reacted to the news that she was dead, and for once, he asked himself why he never bothered to follow up on the aftermath of cases.

She'd had one true friend then, one who would continue to remember her. She had had Andi; he'd had John.

No. Not had had. He still had John, although the doctor wasn't aware of it. And he would come back, which she unfortunately couldn't. He would come back to John, for John.

There was one other thing they had in common, though, one other thing that stood out in Sherlock's mind.

Soo Lin Yao had been killed by her brother. And, in a way, so had Sherlock Holmes.

It wasn't that he wouldn't have expected Mycroft to make a deal with Moriarty. When it came to the safety of the country, he would put nothing past his brother.

Sherlock would have been ready to bet, albeit he was not a betting man, that Mycroft would tell him about it, warn him, perhaps. And if not him per se –

He could have told John, had even warned John about the hit men in Baker Street, so why hadn't he told the doctor about Moriarty's scheme too? It would hardly –

Yes, yes it would have changed everything. Of course. How stupid of him. If Sherlock had known what Moriarty was going to do, he would have prevented it in time, and likely not have found the code – or lack there-of. Mycroft must have believed that he would come out of it fine, had not predicted Moriarty's plan, and now Sherlock had to live with it. What was done was done; being angry at his brother would be entirely pointless.

Mycroft had been, in the words of the young woman, Moriarty's puppet in this game. Only seeing what was happening when it was already too late. Yet he had done what he considered best for what he held dear. Sherlock had no illusions; he knew he'd never been as important to Mycroft as his job. He didn't doubt that his brother cared for him – but he was, like Sherlock himself, married to his work.

Sherlock didn't blame Mycroft.

He was sure Soo Lin Yao hadn't blamed her brother either. There had been no defensive marks on the body, and not just because he had shot her immediately. The bullet wound had shown that he must have been close, so close she could have tried grabbing the gun or striking him. She hadn't. She had accepted what her brother was going to do.

It was starting to rain. Sherlock looked up and sighed, pretending that he wouldn't miss the London rain. He took one last look at the grave and bade the courageous young woman farewell.

Knowing that he'd need all his powers to prevent his friends being justified in bringing flowers to his grave too.

**Author's note: One other announcement: I have now exhausted all the character tags. Seems my obsession with minor characters is even worse than I thought.**

**I hope you liked it, please review. **


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